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Smalltime (Part Five)
The next thing I knew was that I’d been deposited in a dumpster in that same alley. Hadn’t had this happen to me since grade school. I climbed out and landed on the ground, howling in pain, as it appeared my ankle and some of my ribs were broken. I had a mental block; I couldn’t remember what happened after this guy asked me about… The Ringer. Bastard has someone looking for him, I thought. What he’d done that past week must’ve pissed more people off than just Morie, that was for sure. I determined I had been passed out for a while, judging by the position of the sun in the sky, which left the alley darker than before. I was forced to fashion myself an ankle brace out of air, which was so much better than possibly having to make one out of alley trash. Upon further inspection of my surroundings, I saw someone not too far down the alleyway, head covered by a jacket. I walked over to them, kneeled down, lifted the jacket, rolled them over and… It was the guy with the scar. I checked his pulse. Dead as a doornail. Fuck, I thought. I sat back against the brick wall, confused. Did I do this? No, I couldn’t have. No puncture wounds; I could hardly lay a hit on the guy with him grabbing at my neck and thrashing me like he did. I could have used anxiety against him, but I didn’t have the focus. Or did I? Regardless, something wasn’t right. I used a nearby payphone to call in Morie, the one person I’d know who would believe me 100% that I didn’t kill this guy, on the grounds that I don’t have the balls for such a thing. That didn’t stop her from kicking me in what balls I had when she arrived, however. “So he attacked your sorry ass, asked you about the Ringer, you ended up in the dumpster, and he dropped dead?” she asked. “Well I can only assume that’s what happened,” I said. “I blacked out for a while, I can’t remember how he died.” “He may not have been alone. Maybe there was another person here, someone who sent him after you and got rid of him to cover their tracks.” “Maybe,” I said. “But that still doesn’t explain how he died.” Morinth knelt down to get a closer look at the body. The man’s left fist was clenched shut. She pried it open, revealing a letter “N” carved into the palm. We didn’t find a knife on his person, or anywhere in the alley for that matter, that could have done the damage. “I wonder what that stands for,” Morinth said. “Nutcase,” I replied. “Well, we’ll find out in time. I’ll get some of our guys to bag and tag the body. You need to see Briggs?” “Yeah,” I said, “that sounds like a good idea.” I went off to see our resident healer, Raymond Briggs, otherwise known as Brightside, at his office downtown so I could take care of my ankle and ribs. Though he lives by his motto, “I could heal you, but where’s the lesson in that?”, he decided to help me anyway. I don’t think he likes me very much, but whatever. I’m a journalist. I’m not supposed to be liked. “How’d you go and do this to yourself, again?” he asked me. “You trip over Morinth’s foot or something?” “Funny,” I said, trying to sound as overly sarcastic as possible. “No, I got roughed up by a guy who’s currently dead.” He gave me a look. “And no, I wasn’t the one who killed him, so don’t look at me like I have a pair of testicles hanging from my forehead.” “I guess that’s what matters, then.” He scribbled something in a notebook, probably just keeping track of his patients. “Well, I’ll see you later,” I said. “I’m going to do something unusual, and by that I mean sleep for more than five hours.” “Best of luck to you, guy.” I think he had started to doodle a picture of a cat or something in his little notebook. I put on my jacket and left, no questions asked. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky. The police precinct I had the pleasure of visiting the day before was on the path from Brightside’s office to mine, so I thought I’d stop by just to make sure everything was okay. That’s how everything looked when I got there at least. As I drew near, I noticed someone in a hooded jacket leaning back against the front wall of a building opposite the precinct. He seemed to stare straight at me, until he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and started to walk away. I thought nothing of it, and started to walk away from the precinct, until I heard an overwhelming explosion from behind me. The blast caused the front façade of the building to crumble, some chunks of wall and shards of broken glass flying forward into the street. I stood back and used my aerokinetics to keep myself from being harmed, and after ten seconds I ran into the building to see what had happened. The air was dusty and thick, so I tried clearing some of it out by pumping fresh air in from outside. Other walls within the building buckled from the pressure of the upper floors, which started to fall apart around me. Making sure the people up front were okay, I headed to the back of the station to see if Oldstrong and Morie were there, and to make sure they hadn’t been hurt if they were. I was greeted with the stares from a horde of criminals, freed from their temporary cells, ready to attack. The palms of their left hands all dripped with blood, undoubtedly from being carved, as they stared at me with the same fixed gaze, just how the man with the scar on his face stared into my eyes earlier in the day. Something huge was happening, and I was stuck right in the middle of it. Here we go. END OF PART FIVE Smalltime written by Mister Z CLICK HERE for PART ONE CLICK HERE for PART TWO CLICK HERE for PART THREE CLICK HERE for PART FOUR CLICK HERE for PART SIX